


Unexpected

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Ash & Antlers [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Asexual Hannibal, Asexual Will, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fairy Tale Elements, First Kiss, Hannibal Loves Will, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Wendigo Hannibal, Will Loves Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8400436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Will is quickly discovering that there are definite perks to running away with a wendigo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! Again! :D Our fandom's lucky enough to have two Halloween events running concurrently--[Hannigram Acethetic](http://hannigramacethetic.tumblr.com/)'s [#FrightBite](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/HannigramAcethetic_FrightBite) and [Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive](http://http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/)'s [#ThePumpkinIsPeople](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/HanniCreative_ThePumpkinIsPeople)\--and this fic is written for both. Additionally, this fic is complete. The second chapter will post tomorrow.
> 
> Thank you to [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works), because she betaed this, because she's awesome like that. (She's also cheerleading for part after part to this series, so if you're reading this, you might ought to thank her, too.) <3

_“What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.”_

_\--Werner Herzog_

 

Will has never experienced ecstasy like this before. He was right--Hannibal is consuming him, in the sense that he’s legitimately worshiping his body. The Feeding is different from the Song; the latter had affected him all at once, made Will relaxed and warm; the former does, as well, but each place where Hannibal’s lips touch his body feels tingly, electrified. Hannibal had promised him pleasure, and he is giving Will just that.

It isn’t sexual, though, for which Will is grateful. There’s only the strong feeling of devotion and adoration. The whole process reminds Will of how vampires lull their prey to drain them to death, romantic in the classical sense.

His eyes are closed and every exhale is a sigh. Will would lift a hand to touch Hannibal in turn, but his body is buzzing with energy while concurrently being too weak to move. Hannibal moves Will as he needs, raises his arms and legs to his mouth, turns him over. Teeth and tongue and murmured words of praise and Will never wants it to end.

Time floats as Will does, his body lavished with touch. He opens his eyes only for them to roll back in his head once again. The energy under his skin builds and builds, nothing like arousal, nothing like an orgasm, nothing explicable. Will’s sighs turn to moans, even as Hannibal scoops his limp body back into his arms and does nothing but hold him close, nose buried in Will’s hair. He turns his head to scent Hannibal’s skin in return; he smells like Will.

“How do you feel?” Hannibal asks him eventually. His voice is calming, a strange compliment to the rhythmic rush coursing through Will’s muscles. Will tries to speak, but manages nothing beyond a feeble whimper. He’s smiling, though, and Hannibal smiles back down at him, pushing Will’s sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. “You need to eat,” says Hannibal, and he stands up easily, preternaturally strong, with Will in his arms. “I shall show you the rest of our home on the way.”

 _Our home,_ Will thinks. _Ours,_ and it feels so right to say and hear.

“We’re leaving the nest,” Hannibal says. “It’s a bit like a bedroom, I suppose. Mine, that is. For many of my kind, the less civilized ones, a nest is all they have. A safe place to turn to that no one else can find.”

As far as Will knows, they’ve left the room--nest, apparently--and turned out into a hallway. His vision is fuzzy, however, and he can’t summon the desire to turn his face away from Hannibal’s chest, from the silky silvered hair that tickles his skin. Will’s so vulnerable like this; no wonder Hannibal wanted his permission. He was afraid Will wouldn’t trust him enough to surrender all of himself at once.

“Most wendigo keep more of a cave or a hovel,” he explains, “because they do nothing but sleep and drag back their prey to kill and Feed upon.” Will can’t help but shiver at the thought of that, and Hannibal stops walking, holds him more tightly. “We will rest in mine, yes, but I will only ever Feed on you like this, I promise you.” Hannibal rocks him like a parent rocks a child, and the vampire analogy springs back to Will’s mind. Still, it feels nice, and he hums in contentment.

They begin to move again, now that Hannibal is assured that Will has resettled. “The majority of my brethren are feral and wild; they never shift back to human form. It tempts me on occasion, I must admit. While I enjoy moving among humans freely, there is much to be said for living unmasked.”

The darkness of the hallway gives way to another warm, bright room. Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees the gleam of light on stainless steel, which means this must be the kitchen, knowing Hannibal’s tastes as he does. Unexpectedly, Hannibal bends and lays Will down on a soft couch, still within the boundaries of the kitchen itself. He remembers the odd armchair in Hannibal’s kitchen in Baltimore, but the presence of a sofa is even stranger.

With Hannibal no longer touching him, Will is suddenly sleepy, though he does summon enough energy to try and reach for him again, much to Hannibal’s apparent amusement. “You should rest, love,” and Will’s chest swells to hear that word, though it’s hardly a surprise. “I’ll be close by. Simply over here, making breakfast.”

Will does as much as he can to answer, blinking once, slowly. With the last bit of motion he can muster, he holds out an open hand, trembling with the effort. Hannibal takes his hand and kisses the palm, his own eyes closed. He sniffs Will’s hand--and Will wonders if this is another trait of the wendigo, a wild instinct Hannibal can’t rid himself of--before folding Will’s fingers and thumb into a loose fist, then gently placing it back down beside Will’s head.

Hannibal’s hardly three steps away before Will falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up the way static dissipates, releasing particles of drowsiness as Will blinks his way back into wakefulness. The kitchen smells both sweet and savory, sugary pastries and eggs and sausage. Will considers what the sausage might be made of, but only for a moment. It doesn’t especially matter to him anymore.

The kitchen is lovely, now that Will can see it, bright and beautiful, shiny and clean. There’s a large skylight in the ceiling in lieu of windows, letting the sun stream in and touch every fragment of Hannibal’s preferred domain. It reminds Will of Hannibal’s kitchen in Baltimore, but only in appliances and work space. This kitchen isn’t as theatrical: more homey, more inviting.

Will is glad that Hannibal took the time to dress him. The drawstring pants are a light cream and gray plaid-- _Of course it’s plaid,_ he thinks, _it’s always plaid with us._ \--and the softest t-shirt Will’s ever worn. That seems to be a theme here, softness, as if Hannibal is trying to make up for the sharpness of their relationship for the past five years. Or, perhaps, Hannibal has always been secretly soft, but never knew how to express that without giving himself away entirely. Even in their darkest and deadliest moments, Hannibal has been inexplicably gentle with him; Will looks forward to a life together that is nothing but comfort and warmth, as Hannibal said he would give him, and Will trusts that the monster is capable of doing just that.

He’s alone, Hannibal likely setting the table in whatever ridiculously ostentatious dining room he’s created for himself. Much to his surprise, Will finds himself bereft by his absence, a bubbling urge in his gut to touch and be touched, to seek and be sought out.

Attempting to stand turns out to be a terrible idea. Will makes it halfway off the couch before he abruptly sits back down. His shoulder aches from where he attempted to push himself up, and he hisses at the pain. Immediately, he misses the euphoria of both the Song and the Feeding.

“Are you alright?” Hannibal calls from outside the room.

Will grits his teeth, and it hurts his cheek, pulling at stitches both inside and out. For the first time, he can feel the sore slice on his tongue where Dolarhyde’s knife had nicked it, too. He doesn’t want to speak, or move, or be awake, if he’s being honest with himself.

Hannibal’s steps are barely audible against the stone tile floor, which lets Will know that he is barefoot, as well. He feels dizzy even sitting, but then Hannibal’s arm is around him, and a glass is pressed to his lips. Will drinks; the water is cool, though swallowing is painful.

“I feel like we’ve done this before,” Will says as best he can, struggling to keep his eyes open. There’s a slight echo as Hannibal sets the glass down on the floor.

“Florence,” says Hannibal quietly. “I long to go back with you and create happier memories.”

“That seems foolhardy.”

“A calculated risk,” Hannibal tells him. “I will find a way.” He sighs, touching the uninjured side of Will’s face. “Might I Feed from you once more? It will make you sleepy, but I would remove your pain.”

Will nods, and Hannibal’s fingers gently alight on his wounded cheek. He can actually feel him pulling out the sting, and Will slumps with relief. It’s an effort to not think about how Hannibal could have healed him so many times in the past, but Will succeeds. “Thank you,” he says, in lieu of remembering.

Hannibal snakes his hand into the sleeve of Will’s shirt and presses on the wound in his shoulder. That pain evaporates, too, but Hannibal was right--Will feels inordinately tired. “Do you need assistance to breakfast?” asks Hannibal. “It is no trouble.”

“You’re going to spoil me,” Will says, laughing. He may be sleepy again, but that slightly giddy feeling has returned.

“I believe you deserve spoiling,” and Hannibal kisses his cheek.

“Regardless, I’m going to get addicted to whatever wendigo magic you keep using on me.”

“I would keep you like this always, if you wished, happy and warm.”

“Maybe until I’m all healed up,” Will concedes. “Though the thought of not being in constant dull pain is enticing. I honestly can’t remember the last time something didn’t hurt--headaches, old injuries, my probably arthritic knees. Sometimes…” Will licks his lips, considering whether or not he should continue, and ultimately presses on. “I pulled some of the stitches on my stomach once. They got infected. It still smarts, now and again.”

Hannibal’s lips are still close to Will’s face. “Oh darling. My darling boy.”

There’s a note in Hannibal’s voice that sounds pitiful, and Will hates it. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says sternly, his muscles tensing. “I’m not interested in your pity.”

“Never pity, Will, no.” Hannibal rubs what he can reach of Will’s back. “Admiration. I admire your strength.”

“Not feeling very strong right now.”

“You are. I promise.”

Will shakes his head. “If you insist. Help me stand? Maybe I’ll let you carry me later,” he says, looking at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, grinning as Hannibal’s lips quirk upward. He swings his arm over Hannibal’s shoulders and that same soft sweater, Hannibal moving his to Will’s waist. It’s wonderful, how in sync they seem to be now, as they stand, as they walk, as they breathe.

Hannibal pulls out Will’s chair, and Will sits down gratefully. There’s coffee, which he’s glad for, though he isn’t sure how much it will wake him up when he’s magically half-asleep. Breakfast sausage that reminds Will of his very early childhood in the Mississippi Delta; omelets with asparagus and some kind of smoked meat, if Will’s guess is correct; muffins that smell of orange and almonds, cinnamon and brown sugar. If he wasn’t hungry before, he’s starving now.

It isn’t fancy, like he’s come to expect from Hannibal, though the plates are the same unnecessary good china and there are berries in small crystal bowls. No centerpiece of skulls and flowers; no centerpiece, at all, in fact. Will looks over at Hannibal, sitting across from him, holding his own cup of coffee.

Will can’t help himself; he stretches out one of his feet in search of one of Hannibal’s. To his utter delight, Hannibal startles at Will’s touch, but then the skin around his eyes crinkle with that same smile as when Will had first caressed his bare skin. _God,_ he’s so besotted with this man; this strange, terrible, beautiful man; this man Will would gladly let keep him drugged and ecstatic, or rend him limb from limb, or some awful balance of the two.

“You are tempting, Will,” Hannibal says, and maybe the wendigo can read minds, too. It wouldn’t surprise Will. He doesn’t believe there’s much in the world that _could_ surprise him now.

He lifts his mug to Hannibal, who does the same; they toast with fresh-brewed coffee, and eat their breakfast, feet wound together beneath the table.


	2. Chapter 2

They returned to the nest after they ate, and Will was glad to see there was an en suite when they arrived, not having wanted Hannibal to offer assistance should Will have asked where a toilet could be found. His memory of the bedroom beyond the bed itself was hazy at best, but it’s lit similarly to the other rooms he’s been in so far--one large skylight, illuminating the interior while allowing for privacy. Will isn’t sure why he didn’t notice it before, when he was coming down the first time and Hannibal was snuggled up against him, but he accepts this oddity as he’s accepted all the rest thus far.

The nest’s decor is the exact opposite of what Will would expect from Hannibal. It’s bright, for starters, all the same shade of white, like Hannibal had given up on decorating by the time he made it this far and simply started dumping the same color of paint over everything. But it doesn’t come across as boring; the room is more like a blank canvas, clean and full of potential. The bed takes up most of the room, and there are more pillows than Will recalls. All he can think about is undressing again and lounging back in them, maybe convincing Hannibal to place him further under his spell so as to completely lose himself to sensation.

Hannibal, once again seeming to understand Will’s desire--or else, they shared the same need, only from opposite sides, which seemed most likely--held his hand out to Will when he came out of the en suite. Will took it happily, and let himself be pulled onto the bed.

“How long will it take me to recover?” Will asked, Hannibal pushing him back into the pillows before falling to lie on his side beside him. Too comfortable already, Will only turns his face to him. Hannibal’s eyes are mesmerizing, and Will is suddenly curious if they experience the same emotionally-influenced color change as the wendigo’s.

“Considering how close you met with death…” A flicker of pain crosses Hannibal’s face; Will reaches over to place his hand over Hannibal’s heart. “It’s hard to say,” and Hannibal covers Will’s hand with his own. “Shifting to my true form, while tiring, allowed my body to regenerate far more quickly. Allowing me to Feed from you restored me further; however, it does mean you will heal at a slower rate.” He pauses before adding, “Which I likely should have told you.”

“Would I have been in pain had you not?”

“Yes,” he answers, “unless I had refrained from shifting back, though it was becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain that state, starving as I was.”

Will nestles further into the pillows. “Then don’t apologize.”

Hannibal’s eyes are wet, shining, and Will can’t believe there was ever a time where he found him cold and unfeeling. “May I undress you?”

And Will wants him to, but he still counters with, “May I ask you a few questions?”

“Before, during, or after?”

“All of the above works for me.” Will shrugs, and Hannibal grins just enough to show the sharp points of his teeth. “If you can heal yourself,” he begins, “why do you still have scars? I felt the Verger brand on your back, and you still carry the agony of a failed assassination.” He grabs at Hannibal’s arm overtop of his sweater before Hannibal has time to untie Will’s pajama pants, squeezes there over the mark left by Matthew Brown.

“I was too weak to heal the punctures from my crucifixion,” Hannibal explains. “He had almost drowned me prior to that, and my cognition was muddled from the oxygen deprivation, else I might have thought to shift. I could not risk doing so once rescued as I--” He breaks off, his voice thin, words cracked. “--I would have had to leave my life in Baltimore, to leave  _ you, _ and I could not damn you to die in that place.”

Will’s grip falters. “You weren’t going to let them convict me.”

“No.” Hannibal’s eyes close, and Will can practically _ taste  _ his emotional anguish, the notes bitter and rough in his mouth. He guides Hannibal’s hand beneath his tee, lays the warm palm against his stomach, trying to distract him, and it works. Hannibal doesn’t Feed from him now, only explores Will’s skin as if he has never done so before. Same as earlier, Hannibal’s fingers pause at the smile he carved into Will’s body before running back and forth along the length of it.

And Will understands now, what the motion means. “You can’t heal something that’s already completely healed.”

Hannibal swallows; he opens his eyes, and they’re full of regret. “No,” he repeats. “As for Cordell’s work, I needed to reserve my strength to care for you, and then, after you rejected me…” His lip snarls, and a lone tear finally escapes from Hannibal’s right eye. It rolls down the side of his nose, glistening in the sunlight until Will wipes it away with his thumb.

“I’m not rejecting you now,” says Will. “Not now, and never again.” Will slides his fingers across Hannibal’s cheek, his ear, through his hair to cradle the back of his head. “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me, you know.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be interested in--”

Will turns his body, moves in, and cuts Hannibal off, though giving him nothing more than a peck on the lips, both of them staring at each other for the duration. Hannibal inhales shakily, and then his hand is curled around to the small of Will’s back. He pulls Will closer, and now there’s no need to look, no need to maintain eye contact, only to feel.

Hannibal’s mouth is warm, as Will expected, considering how hot his touch is otherwise. He parts his lips and lets Hannibal lick his way into Will’s mouth, and his tongue feels like flame, too, heating Will up from the inside. Hannibal moves his hand up Will’s spine, wraps his leg around the back of Will’s calves. He’s never been kissed like this, and Will doesn’t want it to stop, but he’s too curious about Hannibal to keep going right now.

Reluctantly, Will breaks the kiss, though he does give Hannibal’s bottom lip a parting nibble. “I bet you could Feed that way, if you wanted to.”

That pulls the tiniest of groans from Hannibal. “Would you like to try?” he asks breathily. He’s grown hard against Will’s hip, from nothing more than kissing. Will finds it disconcerting.

“Yes,” he says, “but no further.”

Hannibal’s hand comes up through the neck of Will’s shirt, and he twines his fingers in Will’s hair, remaining gentle. “I take your lead on this, love,” and Will feels his face heats up. “You like that? When I call you what is true?”

Will nods, then leans his head back into Hannibal’s palm. “I enjoy kissing. Making out. Cuddling is my favorite. Just touch, in general.” Hannibal says nothing, as if waiting for Will to continue, so he does. “I mean, I like getting off, even if I am put off by sex, so...don’t really know that there’s anything for me  _ to _ lead.”

“And that is fine with me.” Hannibal presses another quick kiss to Will’s lips. “Now. You have more questions?”

He exhales, satisfied with Hannibal’s answer for now. “It’s less of a question and more of a statement, actually. I only wanted you to know that your true form?”

Hannibal seems pensive, nervous. Will dislikes it immediately. “Yes?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Will assures him. “If you want to be yourself, you can.”

A smile plays on Hannibal’s lips. “I do enjoy being able to talk to you.”

“Well, I mean, so do I,” says Will, chuckling. “But you already know entirely too much about me. If the wendigo is what you are, then I want to know it, too.”

Will’s never seen Hannibal speechless before; it’s never something he’d even anticipated seeing. Hannibal’s mouth is hanging slightly open, and his eyes are still damp, but he also looks astonished, maybe a little fearful. It’s as if, now that his defenses are down and his carefully-practiced mask is gone, Hannibal has no idea what emotion to feel first.

“We can discuss it later.” Will follows his instincts and talks to him as gently as he would a dog he’d found on the side of the road. Hannibal’s a beast, too, after all. “Are you hungry?” he asks, scritching the back of Hannibal’s neck.

“I--I ate breakfast with you.”

And that’s even stranger, the stuttering, uncharacteristic and odd to hear. “Yes,” says Will, still quiet, still cautious, “and I know you enjoyed it, that you enjoy cooking. But was it the kind of food you needed, Hannibal?”

He flicks his eyes away. “I was unsure how you would feel about sharing my diet,” he says.

“Already figured I was and would be.”

“Perhaps,” begins Hannibal, “you might do me the honor of accompanying me on a hunting trip, once you are well.”

Will feels his heart pick up speed, grips the back of Hannibal’s neck, watches his pupils dilate as his vicious smirk grows to match Will’s own. “I look forward to it. For now, though, would you do me the honor of allowing me to sate your hunger?”

The words have scarcely left Will’s mouth before Hannibal’s lips are on his, but this time, they begin to go numb at his touch. That same wonderful weakness begins to flow through Will’s muscles, like the eddying of mist through the  rougarou’s hunting grounds in the swamps of Louisiana. His hand loses hold of Hannibal’s neck, leaving Will’s arm loose and boneless over Hannibal’s shoulder.

Will adjusts to the feeling of life pleasantly leaving his body, of utter helplessness, of being intoxicated with affection. After long, languorous minutes, Will finds himself unable to reciprocate, incapable of doing anything more than enjoy the plundering of his mouth, the warm slide of Hannibal’s tongue against his own.

Finally, Hannibal forces himself away, sounding physically pained to do so. “Skin,” he rasps out, dragging his nails down Will’s spine, making him shiver. “Need...against me,” and then Hannibal’s tugging at the tail of Will’s tee.

Will manages a pleased, “Mmm,” and hopes that serves as enough consent for Hannibal, because it’s certainly enough for him right now. He giggles as Hannibal practically rips his shirt over his head, earns a playful nip at his collarbone for his trouble. Will helps extricate his sluggish legs from his pants and underwear, watches with fascination as Hannibal jerks off his own clothes, then wads up all of the garments and throws them off the bed.

“That’s a distinctly un-you type behavior,” Will slurs. “Gonna have to build a whole new profile if I wanna catch you.”

Hannibal practically pounces him, caging Will in with his arms and legs, carefully settling his weight on top of him. “It would seem,” he says, “that  _ I _ have caught  _ you.”  _ Hannibal begins to mouth along Will’s shoulder, heading up his neck; every spot he tastes tingles.

Will sighs happily beneath him, tilting his head to the side as far as he can. “You’re fuzzy,” he mumbles, shifting beneath Hannibal to feel the play of hair against his skin. “Warm. Like a--a--a blanket.”

“Careful, now. I might begin to think you enjoy being prey.” Hannibal noses behind Will’s ear and inhales deeply. “A pity you wore such hideous aftershave, or else I might have stolen you away long before now.”

“Got me now.” Will’s voice is hardly more than a whisper. “St-- _ ahhh _ \--aying.”

“What if I changed my mind?” asks Hannibal, kissing his way up Will’s jaw. “What if I should decide to keep you like this forever, regardless of your opinion on the matter?” He bites at and worries the tender skin underneath Will’s chin, then traces the teeth marks with the tip of his tongue. “Because I could so easily glut myself on you, Will, leave you a perfect and willing thrall.”

Will rubs his face against a pillow, losing himself to sensation. Hannibal is still half-hard, but he’s exerting no pressure, not rutting against Will, content to lie there atop him.  _ “Uhnngh,” _ will have to work as agreement.

A kiss is laid at the corner of Will’s mouth, but his head is too heavy to meet Hannibal’s lips with his own, or maybe it doesn’t weigh enough--Will can’t be sure, but it must be one of the two, he thinks. “Good to know you’re amenable.” And then Hannibal is kissing him properly again, but not for nearly long enough, or maybe too long, or maybe they still are and it only hasn’t caught up with Will yet. All he knows is that he is tumbling headlong toward euphoria, and that he doesn’t  _ feel _ as though he is being kissed, and someone that sounds like him is whining petulantly.

“Will?”

“Hmm?”

“Close your eyes, dearest.”

He does, and Hannibal pushes himself off of Will; the bed settles as Hannibal stands up. There are a series of ghastly pops, and what sounds like bones crushing together, and the distinct smell of storm-soaked rust. The bed dips down a bit next to Will, and then a long thin arm insinuates itself beneath his head. Will is repositioned, a mirror image of how he held Hannibal as he rested earlier. The top of his head is tucked beneath a solid chin; likewise, Will is wrapped up in strong, unyielding limbs. Even if he could move, Will couldn’t escape. He feels more protected than he does confined.

“‘Llo,” Will mutters, though he can barely hear himself. It takes an extraordinary amount of effort, but Will finally manages to lay what hopefully resembles a kiss on Hannibal’s arm.

Behind him, the wendigo’s chest rumbles, and it begins to purr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for part three! Should be posting the first chapter later today, so be on the lookout.

**Author's Note:**

> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> I also have a [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/shiphitsthefan/ficash-antlers/) for this series if you're interested in that sort of thing.
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


End file.
